


Routine

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Colbert Report FPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Lemuel Cork</p>
    </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lemuel Cork

 

 

Tad was driving down the highway, and while he nodded along with the music, part of him hated what he was doing.

He knew Stephen Colbert, had worked with him for a little more than a year. Stephen Colbert was an overbearing, vainglorious ass. He spouted off the kinds of things that Tad didn't agree with. Stephen had made him drive down to Colbert County, somewhere in Mississippi, and had ordered him to open a museum in his name.

But even as he listed off how Stephen was self-centered, married, overly demanding, and vain as hell, Tad had to admit there were things about the man that were... attractive.

He'd known about his weird combination of hero-worship and unrequited lust for the phenomenon that was Stephen Colbert ever since Stephen first shook his hand and ordered him to get him a latte. He was take-charge, knew what he wanted.

And he had brown, puppy dog eyes. Ones that looked sad all the time.

Despite the fact that Stephen always wore his wedding ring, and mentioned toys that were in his kids' age range, Stephen's smiles were plastic-y. He just plowed through to his next point, and made sure to bludgeon people with it so often that no one could ever say that Stephen Colbert was wrong.

Tad had known, though. He'd known since the night he'd found Stephen sitting behind his C-shaped desk in the studio. Stephen had looked up at him from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and Tad had been helpless to resist.

Tad made the turn-off for the cabin that Stephen always insisted on using, going down the long, narrow, two-lane road for a ways before turning off onto the dirt path. Despite the twisty-curviness of the road, Tad wouldn't get lost, because he'd had six times of coming down this road to remind him.

Six times that he'd answered Stephen's summons like a man possessed. It was stupid, it was insane, they'd get caught, and it would be _so_ typical of Stephen to just blame it on him and have him fired in one fell swoop.

Tad wasn't sure what was worse -- the fact that he'd answered the summons six times under the pretense of "contract negotiations", or the fact that he _still_ hadn't managed to get any life insurance out of his boss.

He saw the familiar log cabin come into view when he made the last corner, and like always, he found himself turning off the car and staring, debating with himself whether or not to actually get out, or to do the sensible thing and turn around and go back home where things made sense.

It was useless, really. He always got out of the car, even though Stephen never came outside. He was sure that Stephen could hear him pull up -- his piece of shit Chevy coughed and wheezed like an asthmatic dog, the engine threatening to die each time he twisted the key out of the ignition.

Part of him wondered if Stephen ever wondered if there'd be a time when he _would_ turn around.

Blinking for a moment, he went over that last thought in his head, couldn't make heads or tails of it, and got out, locking the door out of habit, and making his way to the large front porch, and then to the door.

Stephen had said that the cabin had been from someone on his wife's side of the family, but he hadn't elaborated. From what Tad could tell, it was old, but had been kept up fairly well. The only thing to really worry about were the odd noises coming from the attic. That Stephen never checked up there wasn't a big surprise. Tad's instinctive response was to think that Stephen was too important to check for pests himself, but to call an exterminator like other people.

Tad found himself correcting himself more and more often lately.

He made his way to the front door, and stared at it, again reaching yet another crossroads that was already a foregone conclusion. Before he gave in and knocked, he forced himself to think, really _think_ about what was going to happen.

Stephen would open the door, offer him a drink. He would politely refuse, and then Stephen would turn around and ask him to get him one. Just manly conversation, nothing wrong with that.

Then somehow, Stephen would be talking, or fiddling around with his laptop, or he'd be just doing _something_ , and it would happen.

There'd be a touch on Tad's shoulder. Light enough to make Tad think that it was his imagination, but heavy enough to make him think that maybe he wasn't imagining at all.

Stephen would offer to teach him something manly -- last time had been how to get the most of his golf swing, even if he never played before. There'd be that closeness, the breath heavy on the back of Tad's neck.

And then there were hands. Stephen's were always strong, secure, shaking a little before flattening themselves against the tops of Tad's thighs, stroking down and in. Stephen saying something about how Tad always tensed his legs up.

Then his zipper would be undone, those same hands that pointed accusingly at cameras at liberals or wagged disapprovingly during his Tip of the Hat, Wag of the Finger segments would reach inside, stroke hard flesh, and pull it out for all the world to see, even if it was just the two of them.

Things changed from there -- Stephen bent him over the dining room table and pounded him hard into the shining finish last time. The time before that had been a torturously slow screwing with Tad panting heavily into the pillows in the bedroom.

But while Stephen appreciated variety as the spice of life in his cabin, there were things that never changed, unspoken rules Tad was expected to live by inside the cabin's drafty walls.

Like, no kissing. Stephen had snorted and pushed him away the first time Tad had tried to taste those lips that spat out insults and praise in the space of two breaths. According to Stephen, he didn't kiss men. Kissing was for his wife. Because he wasn't gay. This was just a friendly workout, to keep the limbs limber.

Apparently, fucking a guy up the ass wasn't gay, either.

Tad knew when Stephen had blithely kicked him out of bed, sentenced him to sleep on the couch in the living room what the score was. Stephen had given him the sad puppy eyes that one late night in the studio, and all Tad had to show for it was a slow, gentle kiss that had never been repeated, and new places to get rugburn.

Funny how it had taken all this time for him to finally face it. For the longest time, he'd imagined that there could've been a chance, no matter how slim, that Stephen might one day change his mind, allow some give and take. But it hadn't come, and Tad was getting tired.

It had only been six times, but Tad was getting tired. He was tired of feeling used, of having to cater to Stephen Colbert's every whim and smile and be _appreciative_ for what crumbs of attention he got.

There had been someone else. Rob. Tall, thick brown hair, soft blue-green eyes. Ready laugh, great smile, heavy but _strong_. For three hours on Friday night, Rob had made Tad feel like he was special. Even when Tad had tried to avoid him by ducking into the men's room, he'd simply come in, used the urinal, and asked if he could buy Tad a drink.

Tad had accepted, refusing to feel guilty for doing so, and the next three hours felt... good. Rob had asked him questions, laughed at his jokes, really _listened_. It had been a long time since anybody had actually done that, and not pretended to just to make Tad feel better.

But when the time had come, Rob had asked if he could give him a lift home, and Tad... couldn't do it. He'd felt good, and guilty, and fuzzy from the drinks, and glad that he'd gotten out of the house for once, and that guilt was niggling at him, making him not want to go back to Stephen after having slept with another man.

It was stupid. Stephen had never said not to have a sex life. Hell, the man wasn't expecting him to be virginal, from the way he'd whisper hot and fast into Tad's ear about him liking it, how Stephen was fucking him and never letting him forget it.

Rob had been a good thing, and he'd let it go. What was wrong with him?

The door suddenly opened, jerking Tad out of his thoughts to look straight at Stephen Colbert.

"Tad?" Stephen asked, reaching up with a finger to push his glasses up, closer to the bridge of his nose.

Tad stared at him, not sure what he was looking for -- not even sure if he could find whatever it was -- and didn't say anything.

Stephen shifted his weight from one foot to another, his mouth not smiling, his eyes steady.

The silent stand-off ended when, unexpectedly, Stephen dropped his eyes.

"Are you..." Stephen licked his lips. "Are you coming in?"

Tad blinked, and started to shake his head, but then he caught something, just there. It was in Stephen's eyes, hanging around the corners of his mouth, dusting his cheekbones, making his glasses flash. It was like, no matter how many times Stephen declared how right he was, and how Bush should always be followed unquestioningly, there was... uncertainty.

That was it. Uncertainty. It clung to the man like air freshener.

As the moments stretched, Tad realized that the last time Stephen had looked at him like that had been in that darkened studio, long ago and far away enough to feel like a different lifetime.

"Tad?"

Tad swallowed, unable to look away from those eyes. His mouth moved without him realizing it.

"Sure. Should I bring my things in?"

Stephen's eyes lit up, looking victorious and smug at the same time. Stepping aside and holding the door open, he smiled. "We can get them later. C'mon in."

Tad nodded, breathed, and walked inside. When Stephen closed the door behind him, it sounded like something very heavy slamming shut.

END

 


End file.
